


Grounding

by scififan27



Category: Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: X-Wing Series - Aaron Allston & Michael Stackpole
Genre: Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-15 00:00:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13018986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scififan27/pseuds/scififan27
Summary: After his transfer to Rogue Squadron, Myn is still grappling with his depression and PTSD. Fortunately, someone's been there before, and has a helpful suggestion.





	Grounding

Myn put his hands over his face, and suppressed the urge to growl his frustration. Tonight, even with the changes the docs had made to his meds, sleep wasn't coming easy. His body was tense, and humming with energy, every sound magnified.

More frustrating was the steady snoring of his bunkmate, not because the noise made it difficult to sleep, but because Myn was envious of the guy’s ability to get to sleep, and stay asleep, so easily.

He lifted his wrist to look at his chrono. He'd been trying to get to sleep for an hour. Myn folded back the blankets, and sat up slowly, mindful of the squeakiness of the frankly awful cots, which really didn’t help matters.

He stood, and put his PT kit on quietly, not wanting to wake his bunkmate. Maybe if he burned off some energy, he'd finally be tired enough to sleep despite his frazzled nerves.

He walked as quietly as he could down the hallways to the gym. He was surprised to see the light on when the door hissed open.

Celchu was jogging at a brisk pace on one of the treadmills. He looked at Myn in the mirror, then turned his attention back to the datapad balanced on top of the treadmill console. “Can't sleep?”

Donos stepped onto another of the treadmills. “Nope.”

Celchu’s lips quirked into a sympathetic smile. “Me neither.” He tapped on his datapad without breaking stride.

Myn started the treadmill at a steady walk, rather than jump right in to fast running. Once he got his heart rate up, he sped the treadmill up bit by bit until he was jogging at about the same speed as Celchu.

It felt good to be moving, even if he wasn't going anywhere, and Myn focused on putting one foot in front of the other. He paid attention to what his body was doing. Each footfall sent a ripple through his legs, and up into his torso. He breathed in through his nose, and out through his mouth. The psychiatrist had called it a grounding or mindfulness technique. Focus on the feel of here and now, not letting your mind forget where it was, or some bantha stang like that.

Celchu’s voice startled Myn. “Emtrey said you've been in here almost every night this week.”

Myn shrugged and gave a noncommittal grunt.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Celchu stepped off the treadmill, and picked up his datapad.

Myn’s knee-jerk reaction was to say no, he was fine, but the psychiatrist had insisted he work on that, and seek and accept help when he needed it. “I don't think so? I will let you know if there is, Sir. It’s something to discuss with medical.”

“Ah.” Celchu’s response, though short, sounded rather understanding. “My door is always open. Even at stupid-hundred hours, as long as you don't take offense to my yawning while you talk.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Roll call is in six hours.” With that, Celchu left.

 

The next morning, in between roll call and chow time, Janson poked his head into Myn’s quarters. “Are you alright?”

Myn shrugged while he squared away his side of his quarters. “Fine. Why?”

Janson looked at him suspiciously, but stepped inside. He had a blanket over one arm. Janson's arm trembled as he held it out to Myn. “Tycho said to give this a try.”

Myn raised an eyebrow, but took the blanket. As soon as he did, he could see why it had taken so much effort to hold out. It was _heavy._

“He said something about deep pressure therapy. He said it worked for him, but he doesn't need it anymore.”

Myn put the blanket down at the foot of his bunk. “Okay. Thank you.”

 

That night, Myn unfolded the heavy blanket and spread it out over his bunk. It was a little oversized, probably meant for a wider bed.

He stripped down to his underwear, and climbed underneath the blankets. It felt strange laying underneath the heavy blanket, especially the way it crushed his feet, but it also felt familiar. It reminded him of laying there with Falynn cuddled against him, the weight of her body pressing down on him.

The memory of Falynn brought a twinge of pain, of guilt for being unable to save her, but he'd promised to keep living. For her.

He closed his eyes, and dreamed of her.

  
  
The next morning, Myn woke before his alarm sounded. He stretched underneath his blankets, a long, luxuriating stretch, expecting to feel tightly wound and tense. Instead he felt loose and limber. His mind too, felt clear and alert, rather than groggy. He wasn't ready to sing the praises of the weighted blanket just yet, in case last night was just a good night, but that little ember of hope was there.

**Author's Note:**

> As a PTSD sufferer, I feel a strong connection to Myn, and I wanted to give him my weighted blanket to help him.


End file.
